Need
by dog.spartacus
Summary: Everyone has needs. When a partner has one, the other is always there to help. Multi-chapter fic comprised of various post-eps from seasons 9-12. Rating for sexual content. E/O
1. Signature (9x12)

**A/N: This is a multi-chapter fic, spanning seasons 9-12. Each chapter occurs following an episode; the chapter titles bear the names of the relevant episodes. Thank you for giving it (and me) a chance. All constructive reviews are welcome.**

 **Disclaimer: these characters are _so_ not mine.**

* * *

 _ **Signature**_

It's late. Castleside is quiet in a way that the streets in Manhattan never are. Olivia doesn't know why she gave the cab driver this address and not her own, or this address instead of Kurt's, but she's here now. She's a little drunk, and she swayed on the sidewalk as her cab drove away, rethinking her decision only once its taillights disappeared at the end of the street. Her leather jacket isn't doing much to keep out the chill, and hugging herself isn't helping. It's not enough. Has not been enough all night. Will not be enough, she knows. She makes her way to the front door.

She feels like she hasn't blinked since it happened this afternoon, and no matter where she looks, all she can see is the desk and the gun and Agent Cooper.

She doesn't remember knocking or ringing the bell, but suddenly the porch light comes on and the door is opening. "I'm sorry, I realize the baby's trying to sleep..." she burbles before she can even see who's there.

"Olivia? Is everything okay?" It's Kathy. There is genuine concern in her voice as she holds her robe closed at her neck and glances out past Olivia into the street.

Olivia tries to speak, tries to nod, tries to shake her head, but she doesn't seem to have command over her body. Kathy reaches hesitatingly for her shoulder, and when she makes contact, Olivia immediately turns and pulls the other woman fully against her, not unlike the way Elliot had clutched her a month earlier, the day the baby was born. It's because of that moment, probably, that she's here—because, that day, after an emotionally exhausting and traumatic event, he had finally broken their unspoken agreement, their unspoken rules, and touched her. And now, in a similar position, she needs the same thing he had that day.

Kathy is tense in Olivia's arms, but she hardly notices. One long, silent, dry sob racks Olivia's body, and she pulls Kathy closer.

"Liv?" It's Elliot's voice, somewhere inside the house, beyond Kathy, and Olivia searches for him with wild, unseeing eyes, releasing Kathy and groping for Elliot, wherever he is. "Hey," he says softly, catching one of her hands. She latches onto him immediately, drawing him desperately against her. Elliot glances back at his wife who shrugs helplessly at him but nods her approval and, in fact, tacit encouragement of whatever he must do in this moment. Given permission, his arms wrap around Olivia without hesitation.

Olivia is holding him so close that he can completely encircle her waist with one arm. His other arm is folded around her shoulders. She can't finish a shuddering breath without beginning another sob, so Elliot, mindful of his sleeping household, steps through the still-open front door with her, nodding to Kathy as she closes it behind them. Olivia wails into Elliot's shoulder, and he cradles the back of her head.

Pressed against him, she releases everything she had bottled up since Lauren Cooper pulled the trigger. It comes out in loud, throat-chafing keens, muffled by Elliot's thick muscles and thin t-shirt.

"What happened?" he whispers, rocking her gently and pulling her impossibly closer. She hears him, distantly, and he must know that he won't get an answer, not tonight anyway, and maybe not even from her. Elliot rocks her, alternately pressing his cheek and his lips to her temple.

Eventually, her sobs subside, and her erratic breathing settles into a steadier rhythm, though it is still labored. Elliot continues to rock her, as if she were a child to be soothed, moving his hand from the back of her head down to her back, stroking her hair and neck as he goes. He rubs slow, warm circles on her back as she huffs breath after breath.

"I'm sorry," she finally murmurs into his dampened shoulder, her fatigued arms still clamping him against her, fingers still clutching his shirt desperately.

"Hey," he whispers, both chiding and comforting at once. "You know I'm here. Whatever you need."

She gulps and pulls him even closer at this, turning to press her forehead again his neck. He slides a hand back to her head, to hold her in place. She breathes him in, and it calms her. Her grips loosens a little, and one hand slides from his back to his chest.

"You're okay," he says quietly, echoing what he had said in the hospital that day, too.

Her hand slides from his chest up to his neck, and her fingers rake through the short hairs at the back of his head. "Okay," she breathes against him, so very grateful that he hasn't remarked on the stench of alcohol emanating from every inch of her body. She continues to cling to him.

Only when her grip finally falters does he attempt to pull away. "Want me to drive you home?" he asks, rearing back far enough to look her in the eye.

"No," she tells him, stepping away and composing herself. "No, I'll... I'll call... I'll call a cab," she stammers breathily.

He squints at her and shakes his head. "Nah. I'm gonna drive you," he says. "Just let me get dressed, and I'll be right out, okay?"

It's only then that she realizes that he's been standing there, this entire time, in a t-shirt and lounge pants—barefoot. He must be freezing. Olivia herself shivers at the very thought. She looks at the ugly wet stain she left on his shirt and nods dumbly.

He disappears into the house and she turns on the front porch to look out at the sleepy street. It's so silent. So peaceful. So oblivious. Olivia had seen terrible things in her years on the job, in her time at SVU. She thought about the torture room they had found. The girl who didn't make it: Amy, whose family they might never locate to notify. They were the terrible, terrible realities that the squad faced every day. They were the terrors to which Olivia had sickeningly grown accustomed.

Lauren Cooper wasn't a monster. She had done the wrong thing for the right reasons, and even though Olivia had goaded and pursued her as she would any other perp, Olivia was never fully convinced that Cooper was a criminal. Now, Olivia can't help wondering if Elliot would have given her clarity during the case. How would he have walked that moral tightrope?

What Olivia can't wrap her mind around was that Cooper had a way out. There was a deal in place. She wasn't a monster. She wasn't _becoming_ a monster... She didn't have to...

Olivia closes her eyes and sees it again. She opens them immediately, but it's still there. Her breath catches; she might throw up. She tries very hard to focus on the neighboring houses, on anything that can anchor her to this world, to this moment. But in the stillness, the unspoken and terrifying doubt that Olivia has worked all day to bury worms its way to the surface: _was she responsible?_

Had she pushed too hard? Would things have turned out differently if she had only... what, gone easier? Looked the other way? She's known for a long time that justice isn't blind—so why had she behaved so righteously unflinchingly as though it were? As tough as she had been on Cooper in interrogation, it might as well have been Olivia's finger on the goddamn gun.

Elliot reemerges in boots, jeans, a sweatshirt, and jacket. She turns when she hears the door, and he stops short. She has no idea what she looks like right now, but there is clear worry in her partner's face. He's staring. After a moment, he glances at the car keys in his hand then back at her. "Screw it," he grunts, his voice a cloud a steam between them. "Get in here," he tells her then, reopening the front door, "you're staying with us tonight."

She means to protest. She means to assure him that she'll get a cab. She means to insist that she's fine now. Instead, she follows him in wordlessly and lets him help her out of her jacket. She sits on the couch when he gestures there, and she lets him remove her boots for her. She reclines and pulls her feet up when he arrives with a blanket and an afghan, which he drapes over her.

Elliot takes a seat in the armchair near her head and says nothing. She lies there for long minutes, reluctant to close her eyes again. Eventually, sheer exhaustion wins, and she falls asleep.

In the morning, Olivia is awake before any of the Stablers. She dresses silently and leaves her folded blanket on the back of the couch. The afghan she takes and lays over her partner, huddled in sleep in the chair beside her.

She lets herself out as quietly as possible and walks two blocks before calling a cab to come pick her up.

Later that morning, Olivia is relieved when Elliot enters the bullpen and takes his seat across from her without a second glance her way. He doesn't mention her late-night visit or her early departure, doesn't even ask how she's doing. She appreciates his silence on the matter. She had collapsed in a moment of weakness last night; to be reminded of it now would have only added salt to the wound.

After a bit, Elliot comes up behind her with a cup of coffee. With a hand on the back of her chair—not touching her in any way—he reaches in front of her and sets the cup firmly on her desk. He glances down at her, gives her a single solemn nod, and returns to his desk. Olivia straightens in her seat and reaches for the coffee. This morning, she is stronger.

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 **A/N: More to come... and, fair warning, it's not all so sweet.**


	2. Undercover (9x15)

**A/N: Thank you so much to those of you who have read, reviewed, favorited, and/or followed based on the first chapter.**

 **Please, please, _please_ heed the story rating label for this chapter. It's serious M, with pretty graphic sex at times. (For readers who are repelled by that, simply skip this chapter and read the next when it is published. You'll miss a piece of the character arcs, but the plot will still make sense.)**

 **Also, if you decide to give up on this story because of this chapter, please at least read my note at the bottom of this page before you go.**

 **Thanks, and enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Undercover**_

It has been nearly a week since they arrested Lowell Harris. Nearly a week since Warner had asked her flat-out if she'd been raped. Nearly a week since Elliot had unsteadily cornered her in the locker room and told her, "Even if it was 'nothing'... I'm here for you. Whatever you need."

She has seen Kurt three times since then, slept with him once and feigned a headache twice. It isn't working. It can't continue.

She has decided that Kurt wouldn't understand. He is patient and overly tender, attentive in the way that none of her previous boyfriends has ever been—clingy, she might say. Very unlike Elliot, she thinks, and then she curses herself for comparing her boyfriend to her partner.

If she told Kurt what had happened—or what had _almost_ happened, because, as she reminds herself, Fin got there in time—he would want to talk about it. He would want to go slow. He would give her space. He would give her time. He would assure her that they didn't have to do anything that she didn't want to do.

He would treat her like a victim.

She doesn't want to _be_ a victim.

She doesn't want Lowell Harris to have that power over her.

On the other hand, she doesn't yet know what her triggers will be. She doesn't know what situations will bring back memories or how she will react to those memories in the moment. If she takes a chance and doesn't tell Kurt what happened—almost happened—and has a terrible flashback with him, how will she explain that? Will he think she's crazy? Will he be angry that she didn't tell him? Or will he be overly sweet and kind and considerate, and will he treat her like she's fragile?

She's not fragile. She refuses to be.

The only rational thing, it seems, is for her to move past the trauma—anxiety—without Kurt. She'll go back to him, to his bed, when she has repaired herself, but not until then. She won't take any chances.

Elliot isn't gentle with her. Never has been. He calls her on her shit, and he isn't afraid to push her. Even so, he can read her like no one else, and he knows when to back off. He recognizes when he has pushed too many buttons, and he gives her space to recover, without drawing attention to the fact. He doesn't coddle her, doesn't talk down to her, doesn't make her feel delicate or even particularly feminine. It's perfect for what she needs right now.

She sends him a text one night after their shift because she couldn't have survived saying it to his face. _Your offer still good?_ she asks. She imagines him over in his house in Queens, cleaning up after a family dinner or maybe soothing the baby to sleep. Every minute that he doesn't answer, she pictures him with his family, and a growing part of her hopes that he turns her down.

 _Which one_ , he finally replies.

She considers not responding. She considers waving it off as another "nothing" if he asks about it tomorrow. But then she thinks about Kurt and every other guy she'll ever be with for the rest of her life, and she takes a fortifying breath and taps out: _Helping me cope._

 _Yeah, anytime_ , comes his immediate answer.

 _Now?_ she asks.

The response is a little delayed. She agonizes over the thought that he might be discussing it with Kathy. _Now works_ , he writes at last. _Where?_

 _My place?_ she replies. She intentionally punctuates it like a suggestion, but the truth is, she won't accept anywhere else.

 _Ok_ , he says, _see you in 30_.

It takes him twenty-seven minutes. She knows because she has been watching the clock almost fearfully, half hoping that he never shows. Now that she has set things in motion, she has no idea what she'll say to him when he arrives.

Even after she buzzes him up, his knock on her door makes her jump.

"Hey," she says when she pulls the door open for him.

"Hey," he says, stepping in. Under his wool coat, he is still dressed in his work clothes, and she fleetingly wonders how long it takes him to change after he gets home. Two hours? Three? Until bedtime? She's already in sweats and a t-shirt. She ushers him into the kitchen because she doesn't know where else to go. The only light comes from the lamp over the stove and spillover from the entryway. It's peaceful. "So what's going on?" he prods gently, folding his arms and leaning back against her countertops.

Where does she begin? She still doesn't know how to ask him for what she brought him over for, just knew it needed to happen. Sooner rather than later. She takes a breath and wipes her palms absently on her pants, glad for the distance she had inadvertently put between them. "I told you nothing happened in that basement," she starts.

He bristles visibly.

"And that's—that's true," she adds quickly, before he can stalk out and go find Harris wherever he is in lockup and pummel him to death. "But, I'm still... sort of having trouble... moving past it. I mean, moving past what _almost_ happened."

"What did he do?" Elliot whispers tightly.

"I don't want to talk about it," she breathes, her eyes slipping closed.

"Then why am I here, Liv?"

The terror coursing through her in this moment rivals what she felt that day in the basement of Sealview. "You said you'd be there for whatever I need."

Elliot lowers his head and raises his eyebrows, agreeing and urging her to continue.

"Anything?" she asks nervously.

"Of course," he assures her. "Whatever it is—I don't care—it's yours."

"And it'll stay between us?"

"Won't leave this room. I swear."

She nods uncertainly. "I'm trusting you," she whispers, and it sounds a lot like a warning.

"I know," he tells her, unfolding his arms and gripping the edges of the countertop on either side of him. "And believe me, I don't take that lightly," he adds with a faint smirk. She almost manages a matching smirk, but it dies on her lips when she thinks again of what she's about to do.

She needs to feel in control. She needs to prove to herself that Lowell Harris didn't take that from her, that he didn't make her constantly afraid, that she hadn't been robbed of her sense of self.

Slowly, she saunters towards him, gaze never falling from his. He straightens. "You want me to do something?" he asks conspiratorially.

She bites her lower lip and nods.

"To Harris?" he croaks.

She shakes her head and draws up beside him.

"Then what?" he asks.

" _This_ ," she whispers, suddenly palming his inner thigh.

"Whoa," he reflexively barks, grabbing her wrist and trying and failing to pull away.

"Sorry," she tells him, trailing her fingertips soothingly along his thigh. "I need this. Can I have it?" Slowly she drags her gaze from the floor to his face.

His mouth is open, his breathing rough and erratic, and there seems to be confusion in his stare. "Okay," he barely whispers, his hand falling away from hers.

She slides her palm up, and he reaches to cup her cheek. She pulls away the instant he makes contact, and they're left staring at one another, each angry and betrayed and bewildered at once. "Don't," she says with a slight shake of her head.

He seems to understand, as his hand returns to the countertop beside him. There is worry etched in his features, however, mingling with intrigue. He watches her carefully.

When Olivia's hand slides up again, it detours to his crotch. Elliot gasps.

She rubs him firmly several times, then squeezes. She can feel him stiffening beneath her touch. He shifts, widening his stance, and she slides the heel of her hand down his front to move his member. He releases a shuddering breath through his nose in reaction.

Her nimble fingers skim up his slacks to his belt. She unfastens it and lets it hang open. Her fingers hook into his waistband, thumbs hovering over the button of his fly. "You're sure?" she asks quietly.

"If you are," he breathes.

She lowers her eyes. "I need it," she confesses.

"So take it," he tells her.

It's all the more spurring she needs. The button takes no time to open; the zipper lowers smoothly. Before she has even parted the flaps, she can see how he strains against his cotton boxer-briefs. She closes her eyes and pushes the top of her head against his shoulder as she tries to get her own breathing under control. His shoulder tenses under her, and she wonders if he's suppressing the urge to reach for her, to comfort her, to push her away.

Blindly, she gropes for him, and she opens her eyes again when her fingers find the waistband of his shorts. Eyes fixed on her own hands, Olivia pulls away from Elliot and slowly lowers herself to the floor.

"Oh God," he breathes. Olivia is horrified by how horrified he sounds.

Now eye-level with Elliot's briefs, Olivia slowly pulls the waistband down and over his swollen member. He escapes his confines with a playful bounce and sway that belies the solemnity of the moment. She watches him for a moment before grasping him adroitly, her thumb stretching along his underside, fingers pressing into the top.

She pumps him once, trying to pull him to full attention, and scoots closer, breathing unsteadily. She pumps him again, trying to work up her own nerve, her breath even faster than before. A third time she pulls, and this time she chokes back a sob as she moves in to plant an open-mouthed kiss at his base. She makes only the briefest of contact, though, before she jerks away and releases him.

"I'm sorry," she gasps as she suddenly stands. "Sorry. I'm so sorry," she repeats, gulping for air. She thinks she's crying, but she can't process anything that's happening around her. She can't see a thing, and she continues her profuse apologies because she can't hear a single one she tries to utter; they're all muffled.

When she finally stills, she recognizes the feel of skin against her forehead and the scratch of wool at her temple. She tries to open her eyes, and her wet eyelashes flutter against someone. The hand that suddenly moves to cradle her head feels familiar, and she realizes that she is entwined with Elliot, who is clutching her desperately against him. He is also shaking.

Her wet face is pressed into his neck, and her struggle to free herself is for naught; Elliot is fully wrapped around her, gripping her fiercely, his own face at the back of her neck. Vaguely, she senses a damp heat there, and from the tremors racking his body, she realizes that he is crying, too.

She feels his erection trapped between them, and she thinks she ought to do something about it. She reaches for it awkwardly, her fingers barely wedging between their bodies, her arms still pinioned by his. Suddenly, then, he releases her and beats her to her own mission: he tucks himself away and has his fly zipped and buttoned before she even realizes she's free.

She rocks backward, and he reaches instinctively for her shoulder to steady her.

"Please don't ever tell anyone about this," she says quietly, her voice still thick from crying.

He says nothing, but shakes his head to show compliance when she looks at him.

She sniffs, trying to focus on being reassured rather than embarrassed—and rather embarrassed than victimized—and turns away from him.

Behind her, she hears him buckling his belt, and then the front door opens, and he's gone.

* * *

Two days later, she lets Kurt go down on her to make up for the sex she has been withholding. Rationally, she knows that sex is anything but a commodity, and that she doesn't owe anyone anything, but she wants to feel close to him. She does. He's her boyfriend. It's not the best he's done, and it's certainly not the best she's had, but it doesn't make her anxious or sick to her stomach to think about, and even though she is splayed beneath him, she doesn't feel at all vulnerable when she grabs his hair in her fists and moves him where she wants.

The next day, she finds Elliot while he's making himself an afternoon cup of coffee. She stands there to his left, staring into an open cabinet, as if she has an actual reason to be there. "I need to try again," she says quietly into the cabinet.

Beside her, Elliot stops stirring his coffee.

"Can you come over tonight?"

He is silent for a moment. "Sure," he finally replies, his voice pitching to nearly a squeak.

"Thanks," she breathes and walks away, running her hand through her hair as she returns to her desk. Behind her, she misses the shaky hand that he scrubs down his face as he watches her go.

* * *

They don't exchange calls or texts that night; there's no prior arrangement of when she'll be home or when he'll arrive, he just rings her apartment a little after seven, and she buzzes him up. She's standing in her doorway when he appears at the end of her hall. He walks up silently, and she steps aside to let him in, closing the door firmly behind them.

It's clear that he doesn't know where to go. He has his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, and he just stands there awkwardly in the entryway of her apartment until she gestures to the coat, tacitly offering to take it. After he shrugs out of it and she hangs it up, he has nowhere to put his hands. He tries them briefly on his hips before crossing his arms and ultimately settling on gripping and massaging his right shoulder and bicep.

"Thank you for coming," she says quietly, biting her tongue before she confesses that she was scared he wouldn't show up. "Can I get you anything? Beer? Water?—"

"Beer'd be good," he interjects.

She heads into the kitchen, and he follows. By the time she hands him a bottle of beer from the fridge, he is standing in almost the exact same place he had been three nights earlier. It is an unsteady hand that reaches for the bottle she offers, and she waits for him to take a swig before speaking. "El, we don't have to do this. _You_ don't have t—if it's too much, if I'm asking too much—I don't want to... force you." (The stomach-turning thought had occurred to her more than once in the last three days that she was herself a predator, no more innocent than Lowell Harris was.)

He shakes his head vaguely and peers into his bottle. "No, no—I'm—you're not. Um, I _want_ to help. However I can."

She nods, steeling herself, and slinks toward him. There is less hesitation, less preamble, tonight: she reaches for him immediately. He's already half hard the moment she touches him, and her head snaps to him abruptly, accusingly, at the discovery.

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry," he grates, shifting his hips slightly away and ducking her exigent glare.

"It's fine," she murmurs, and she readjusts her hold on him. In truth, Olivia doesn't actually mind that he was already aroused; maybe it means he wants to be here. Maybe he was looking forward to it. Maybe he's enjoying this. She stops her thoughts there, though, because if she begins to think of personal enjoyment, of pleasure, then this ceases to be what she has convinced herself it is: mere satisfaction of a basic human need. She refuses to think about whether he's enjoying it—or whether _she's_ enjoying it—because then this arrangement treads the murky, shallow waters of infidelity and misconduct. She won't have that.

She unbuckles his belt, lowers his fly, and sinks to the floor. Above her, he sucks in a long, quiet breath. She fleetingly wonders if he's watching her, but she won't look to see; this is _meant_ to be impersonal. Eye contact won't do. She focuses instead on the task immediately at hand.

As she did the other night, she pulls down the waistband of his boxer-briefs, and his dick bobs out right in front of her. She has spent hours analyzing what went wrong on her previous attempt, and she has wondered whether it was the hesitation in this crucial moment. She grabs him now and lifts the solid flesh, kissing him wetly on the underside, right where his shaft begins.

Success.

Filled with confidence, she moves to the other end by gliding him over her tongue, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees his white-knuckle grip on the edge of her countertops. Once at his head, she puckers her lips around the very tip and settles her tongue along his slit. Her pucker turns into a kiss when she pulls back, and she blows on him before taking his head into her mouth again. Above her, he groans, and his bottle slams down onto the countertop.

She sucks on his head for a little while, one hand at his base and the other firmly planted on his hips to keep him from rocking forward. She tries to take him further into her mouth, and in the same moment that she registers the placement of her second hand, she realizes that she _can't_ take him further: her tongue is locked against the back of her throat. Suddenly she feels like she's choking and suffocating at the same time, and it's Lowell Harris and the basement and the other night all over again.

She releases him and gasps for air. It comes easier than she expected, and she recovers in a heartbeat. "Damnit," she mutters, wiping spit and precum from her mouth and chin. "I'm sorry, El," she says, but she's in a very different place now than she was three nights earlier, more frustrated with herself than feeling broken. "I need to be able to—I have to finish it—but I... I just can't right now. Not yet." She wipes his tip dry with her thumb and tenderly tucks him back into his briefs. "Can we try again?" she asks, eyes trained on the bulge in front of her.

"Whatever you need," he tells her, his voice very thick.

She sighs in relief and stands up, moving directly into her entryway instead of having to be face-to-face with him in the kitchen. She hears him rezip and rebuckle, and she gets his coat for him.

She extends the coat silently, and he takes it but doesn't quite move to put it on. Maybe he's waiting for her to tell him when to come back. Maybe he thinks "again" is going to be in ten minutes. Maybe he's just waiting for her to look at him.

"He didn't rape me," she suddenly says in the stillness.

"Okay," he responds soberly.

"Just so you know."

She glances at him, sees him nodding.

"But I felt..." she trails off, hunting for the right word, scanning the baseboards of the small room as if it might be hiding there. Elliot doesn't try to supply the word, just waits. "Powerless," she decides. She looks at him, and he's not judging her or patronizing her or babying her—just listening. "I need to get over that feeling. That memory."

He nods again. "I get it," he tells her, and she believes him. "I'm here for whatever you need. Whenever. Just say the word."

She takes a deep breath and musters a flat smile as opens the door for him. "I'll let you know."

He bids her goodnight and steps through the door, coat still held in his hands.

* * *

The next two days at work are business as usual. Elliot and Olivia work together in their quiet, seamless way, and very little feels different. In fact, it's not until late on Sunday that Fin suddenly says, "Damn, Hawaiian Punch, what's with you?" that Olivia looks up and pays her partner any real attention for the first time. He's got a plastic carton of fresh pineapple in front of him as he proofreads an arrest report, and earlier she had seen him with a blue Goya can from the corner bodega. "Kathy riding you about eating healthier? That's the most fruit I've seen you eat since I've _known_ you!" Fin continues.

"What, a guy can't eat healthy unless it's for a woman?" Elliot retorts.

"Well, more power to you, man," Fin sniggers, finally turning away. "I think all that acid would give me indigestion."

"Not to mention all the bromelain enzymes eating away the proteins of your lips," Munch chimes in from across the way, but Olivia barely hears him.

Elliot's eyes flick up to Olivia, who is staring at him now. He holds her gaze for a moment as he spears the next chunk of pineapple in the container and brings it to his mouth. Suddenly, Olivia feels a rolling gush of wetness between her legs, and she instinctively knows that she is psychologically healed. Still, she needs to be sure.

"Free tonight?" she asks, low enough that no one else will hear.

"I am," he tells her.

That night he removes his own coat in the entryway of her apartment, and when he joins her in the kitchen, she practically claws at his belt and zipper. Again, he's already hard, and she briefly wonders how long he's been like that. Was it the climb up the stairs? The drive over? Has he been ready all day? Wetness pools again between her legs, and she struggles to push the thought out of her mind and focus on the task at hand. _Healing_ , she reminds herself. Not pleasure.

She resolvedly focuses on a scientific study of her abilities and limitations. For instance, with a slackened jaw, she can take him all in this time. Progress. She tests her gag reflex, and with her eyes shut and forehead pressed to his belly, she tests how long she can hold the position. Comparable to her abilities a month earlier. Success. She works on through the catalog of all her old techniques, noting what makes her uncomfortable, what reminds her of the recent near-miss.

She finds no weaknesses.

She has striven not to hear his low groans, not to feel the vibrations in his taut skin, because that's the very thing that turns her on the most—and she is not meant to be turned on.

He comes violently, his body buckling at the waist, and he pitches forward to brace himself on the countertop on the other side of the tiny kitchen. "Jesus!" he hisses. Below him, she gives him one final, slow lick before swallowing. "Oh, Christ," he grates, shuddering under her touch as she gently tucks him again into his boxer-briefs.

She glances at the clock as she rises and is a little surprised to see how early it still is. "There's one last thing," she tells him.

He is still bent over the countertop, but he rubs his temples with the thumb and middle finger of one hand. "Yeah?"

"Tomorrow?" she asks.

He nods but doesn't look at her. "Tomorrow," he agrees, then he pivots away from her and lets himself out.

The next day, their case blows up, and it's late when they finally get to leave. He gives her a ride home as he sometimes does, but this time he parks and silently follows her up. As she climbs the stairs, she tries to put the day and their current case behind her, and she hopes Elliot will help her forget. Tonight, after having regained her sense of control, she needs to give it over to Elliot, and if she's lucky, he'll be forceful enough that she can safely lose herself.

Giving someone else the control would prove her ultimate ownership of it, she has reasoned, and she trusts Elliot like no one else. This, having him in control, is the last challenge she will give herself in her self-prescribed therapy. She laughs a little, wondering what Huang would say if he knew. Of course, no one must know. Ever.

He is still silent behind her as she opens the door, and he obediently removes his coat and goes to the kitchen once inside. She joins him there, and for an awkward moment, they just stand there, not speaking. It takes Olivia an embarrassingly long time to realize that he's waiting on her.

"I need _you_ to do it this time," she finally says, and her voice is barely louder than a timid whisper.

His eyes double in size. "Do _what_?" he asks breathlessly.

She gestures before she can speak. "Y—your pants," she stammers. "And..." Her hand is shaky as she gestures to her head. "Take charge," she whispers. "Tell me what to do." She glares at him, silently imploring him to understand.

He chuckles nervously. "Uh, Liv, I've never—I don't know how t—uh..." His face is turning a deep red in the dim light, and he laughs at himself again as he scratches the bridge of his nose. "See, Kathy's very Catholic about some things... so she's never..." He clears his throat and trails off.

Olivia blanches with the realization. "Oh," she croaks. For the first time, she feels unspeakably guilty, not because of what she's doing to Kathy or the marriage but because she feels as though she has taken something from her partner without his permission. With all his machismo and bravado, she had naturally always assumed that he had a healthy and varied sex life, and she really hadn't thought that a few random blowjobs would be significant.

"I—I can try," he suddenly says, and when she looks up at him, he's got his arm out, partially blocking the doorway. She realizes that she must have moved toward it in her guilt-ridden stupor, and she takes odd comfort for the first time in thinking that he might, in fact, be enjoying this. Maybe she hasn't robbed him of anything.

She steps back, eying him warily.

"Here," he says, moving quickly to unbuckle his belt without looking, his eyes holding hers. He yanks the whole thing off in one forceful motion, the leather roiling like a snake when Elliot chucks it, too hard, into the other room. Olivia inhales deeply.

Elliot's fingers move to his trouser fly. He wastes no time in popping the button open and lowering the zipper, and then he shoves his pants and briefs midway down his thighs.

Again, he's already hard. Elliot grips himself with one hand and lifts his shirt with the other, trying to get it out of the way. It's too cumbersome, though, with his tie, so he releases his dick and quickly uses two hands to dispatch both shirt and tie, sending them sailing into the next room, as well.

This is a very different view than she has ever had: her partner's muscled torso flowing, uninterrupted, to his hips, pelvis, and quads. She takes a steadying breath and reminds herself that this, too, is clinical. But she doesn't ignore the surge of wetness between her legs as she surreptitiously clenches her thighs together.

Elliot takes his dick in hand again and strokes it a few times. Then he looks down, watches himself for a moment, and looks back at Olivia. "C'mere," he commands softly. She goes. "On your knees," he whispers, and she sinks slowly to the floor.

He swallows hard and shifts his weight. She hears his breathing quicken, and she imagines that he's working himself up to do something that makes him uncomfortable. Then she feels his large palm on the top of her head. His fingers curl down and press on the back of her head, pulling her towards him. With his other hand, he is holding his dick steady, pointing it directly at her. As he pulls her against him, she opens her mouth and takes him in with a wet tongue.

Slowly, he guides her movements towards him and away, towards him and away. It's tame and unsure and not what she was expecting. So she changes it up. She resists his hand on her head for a moment, signaling that he should stop—which he does—and she settles her hands on his hips. Holding her head steady, she pulls him forward into her, then pushes him away and out. All it takes is one more forward spur of his hips for him to understand, and then she drops her hands away, reaching to steady herself on the cabinetry behind his calves, and then Elliot is very cautiously fucking her mouth.

After a few moments, Olivia blindly reaches up and finds Elliot's free hand. This she drags to her head to let him know that, yes, he can (and should) hold her in place with both. He pumps into her a little more aggressively now, and she hums in approval. The sensation does something to Elliot, who gasps above her and whose rhythm suddenly falters, along with his grip. Olivia reassumes control and pulls away from him, but Elliot reaches for her and draws her back to him.

He guides her to one side and holds her there, her face pressed into his pelvis. She kisses his warm flesh, sucks and nips at it, and his fingers twist in her short hair as he groans. She nuzzles the base of his dick so she can reach his scrotum with her tongue and lips, and above her he curses unintelligibly. Finally, the teasing seems to be too much for him, and he pulls her away with one hand and uses the other to push his dick back into her mouth. Her lips close around him, and she hums again and feels him shudder. His hand slides from her hair to her face.

She's not prepared for his feather-light fingertips on her jaw, or his thumb smoothing over the apple of her cheek. "Look at me," he says softly. She ignores him. He runs his thumb over her cheek again. "Liv," he says.

She shakes her head a little and hums, "Hm-mm," around him. He grits his teeth and hisses in a breath; she hadn't considered how physically he would experience her response.

When he recovers, he reaches again for her, running his fingers through her hair and over the shell of her ear. "Please," he says simply.

She caves. She hadn't wanted to—hadn't wanted to humanize these sessions, this act—but she had given him control, and she had to do what he said. This is how she rationalizes it to herself. It had nothing to do with the growing curiosity she held about what _exactly_ he looked like from this angle, or how _exactly_ he looked at her when she was down here. Nothing.

She glances up at first, as if that would satisfy the request. Then he palms her cheek, and she tilts back enough to really look at him. He is staring, and she feels exposed. She freezes. His thumb grazes her cheek again, just under her eye.

She means to break eye contact when she nurses her way back to his tip, but somehow she can't; there is something utterly spellbinding about his gaze. His brow furrows and relaxes as she works him with her tongue—she sees it. He grunts softly, his chest rises and falls, his lips part, his hooded eyes struggle to stay open to watch her. She sees it all for the first time. His thumb keeps stroking her damn cheek. It's too much.

She picks up speed, and his hand only follows at first because it's there, then he's grabbing her, moving her, pushing himself into her.

She had meant to break eye contact when she changed the pace, but somehow that didn't happen, either. He's still basically watching her, except his face has contorted, and she can tell he's close.

She sees the moment he teeters over the edge and has only an instant to prepare herself before he's growling, "Oh shit!" and pulling her face completely against his pubic bone. The head of his cock slides down her throat and unloads, but she's ready.

It's over in seconds. After she has swallowed, she licks him as clean as she can and releases him.

"Holy shit," he breathes when she stands up, her joints a little creakier than she'd like them to be.

"Yeah," she agrees vaguely, moving past him to the sink, where she runs some water and rinses her face before filling a glass for herself. She stands there for a moment, just leaning against the sink, sipping her water.

"You okay?" he asks before turning to look at her over his shoulder. He looks ridiculous, she thinks, standing there half-naked in her kitchen, his pants still at his thighs and dick still wagging in front of him.

"Yeah I'm good," she breathes lightly and takes another sip.

He opens his mouth but hesitates. "Did you get what you need?" he asks, but she sees his first, unspoken question in his eyes—it was about his performance, she is sure.

"For now," she tells him.

He nods and starts putting himself back together. His pants are up, though open, and he's studying her as he buttons his shirt. "Are _we_ okay?" he asks quietly.

"We're good, El."

He nods again. "You know I'm... only a call away. If you ever need anything else, I mean."

She can't help but smile—she knows he's being sincere, but it sounds so much like he's begging for another blowjob sometime. "I know," she tells him. "Thank you."

Again he opens his mouth and hesitates. "You're welcome," he finally says.

He finishes tying his tie, gets his coat, and lets himself out.

Once Elliot's gone, Olivia calls Kurt and stalks to the bathroom for a quick shower before he arrives.

The shit hits the fan the next morning with Tucker's presence in the precinct. Elliot finds out about Kurt, and given what they had done the night before—what _she_ had done—she really can't blame him for being pissed. He doesn't quite seem angry, though, but she can't put a finger on the right emotion. Resigned? Disappointed? Hurt? Certainly not betrayed... right? Whatever it is, he's distant for a while.

A week later, Lake is in trouble, and while everyone is focused on that, Olivia breaks it off with Kurt. He doesn't understand her life on the job, doesn't understand when she needs space or how to comfort her when she doesn't, doesn't really understand _her_. Never will.

She doesn't tell Elliot, and he doesn't ask.

Things settle into normalcy for the squad in the absence of Lake, even two months later when they have to watch him arrested him for a second murder and Casey gets called before the Bar. It's not pleasant, and it's never easy, but there's nothing so emotionally damaging that Olivia feels like she'll fall apart again. For the moment, there is a stasis, and she revels in it.

* * *

 **A/N: A few thoughts...**

 **1) Thanks, always, for reading.**

 **2) Regarding the content and inspiration for this chapter: I've read a lot of M-rated SVU fics where Olivia is somehow dominated sexually, either by choice or just by our patriarchal, heteronormative American sexual culture-and I'm not saying that's necessarily _bad_ , but I have always been skeptical of fics of that nature that take place after Sealview. They've never rung true for me because Olivia was traumatized by the events in the basement. Even if Lowell Harris didn't succeed in raping her, we know from 10x1, "Trials," that she was significantly affected psychologically and emotionally. I wanted to write a story in which she tried to work through the trauma on her own, even if it seemed reckless and foolish. (So, paradoxically, Olivia's therapy session in "Trials" can't exist in the same headcanon as this story...) I apologize if the explicitness felt gratuitous. From my standpoint, it felt necessary. The actual writers of SVU have spent years developing Olivia Benson as a strong, resilient female character, and in trying to honor that, I felt I had to be explicit.**

 **3) Regarding timelines: The astute viewer/reader probably recognizes the allusion to 9x16, "Closet," near the end of the chapter, which places this installment within a narrow 10-day window between the arrest of Lowell Harris and the revelation that Olivia has been dating Kurt Moss. You might then wonder why I seem to ignore both 9x17, "Authority," and 9x18, "Trade," and jump straight to a reference to 9x19, "Cold," immediately afterward. Truth be told, I take perverse pride and pleasure in research for my writing, and, to my total surprise, I discovered while writing this that "Cold" actually starts around March 18, whereas the events in "Authority" don't begin until mid-April, and "Trade" until, like, _June_. (Furthermore, the incident with Merritt Rook is not mentioned in my account of the squad's March-to-May because, in fact, he doesn't kidnap Olivia until May 25 or 26, and the stuff with Casey and Lake happens around May 9.)**


	3. Zebras (10x22)

**A/N: Thanks again to all who have been reading, following, favoriting, and/or reviewing. I appreciate your support. Expect three more chapters after this.**

* * *

 _ **Zebras**_

She helps settle his suit coat on his shoulders like nothing has happened.

"How'd you know?" he asks.

"Stuckey said you went to get sushi," she tells him. "You and raw fish?"

His laugh is breathy and faint; he is probably still in shock, probably amazed that he is alive at all. She realizes as she looks again at O'Halloran's body, and at Stuckey lying at his feet, that the reality of the situation hasn't even begun to hit her yet. "What a way to end," Elliot murmurs beside her.

She reaches out and gently rubs his back, her palm skidding in light circles over his taut muscles. It's the first time she's touched him since he was undercover six months earlier. _It could have been him_ , she suddenly thinks, still gazing at O'Halloran, and her hand slides protectively to Elliot's shoulder. She knows she needs to call in the incident, knows she needs to cuff Stuckey, knows that she still ought to check for O'Halloran's pulse even though he's clearly gone. But she can't pull away from Elliot yet. "You're okay, right?" she whispers.

He nods, eyes still trained on the two fallen lab techs.

She glances at him and sees the swelling at his temple. "Yeah?" she whispers again, doubtful, her fingers skimming over his shoulder and up his neck. They reach his cheek and she hisses in a breath, as if the pain were her own.

"I'm okay," he assures her softly, his eyes slipping closed as he wraps a hand around her forearm.

She pivots in front of him and uses her free hand to pull his ruined shirt away from the slashes across his chest. "Some of these are deep," she tells him.

He tries to laugh. "You think I don't know that?" He opens his eyes then and looks at her, and that's the moment that the gravity sets in. She blinks rapidly to stave off the tears that have sprung suddenly, unbidden, to her eyes, and she can only gasp when she tries to breathe. "Hey, you're okay," he says soothingly, rubbing his thumb in circles on her arm.

She chokes a laugh. "That's my line, I think."

He smiles. "Then we're okay," he tells her. " _We're_ okay." He squeezes her arm just a little, his eyes and eyebrows asking her to acknowledge that he's right.

"Yeah," she grunts, and she removes her hands from him, reaching for her cuffs to take care of Stuckey. Behind her, she hears Elliot calling dispatch.

* * *

They don't let her go with him to the hospital, and she's anxious all through her debriefing, snappish with the young IAB investigator who takes her statement. Her hand even trembles a little when she fills in her information on the statement header. Her signature barely looks like hers. And as soon as the formalities are done, she's in the sedan and on her way to Mercy General.

It's been hours, but she tracks him down in the emergency room, where he's sitting sideways on a bed in an open gown. He doesn't look the least bit surprised to see her when she slips in between two curtains, and she's faintly disappointed in herself for being so damn predictable.

They watch each other silently, almost warily, for a moment. "How bad is it?" she finally asks.

He shakes his head. "Not bad." He has stitches in his scalp and gauze taped over two of the wounds on his chest, probably covering fresh sutures there, too. The rest of the slashes, longer but shallower, remain uncovered, the antibiotic ointment smeared across them glistening in the fluorescent light when his chest expands with breath. She stares. "Liv, I'm fine," he tells her.

"Do you need anything?" she asks, taking half a step closer to him.

"I don't think so," he sighs. "I'm cleaned up, tetanus shot, PEP regimen in the works. Think I'm good." He eyes her, though. "What about you?"

She opens her mouth to say something—to lie, to tell him that she's totally fine—but she came here, didn't she? When she takes a faltering step towards him, he instantly shifts and makes room for her, and her stride becomes sure as she moves to join him on the bed.

She sits close to him. Too close, maybe, with her right thigh and shoulder flush with his. He doesn't move, though, and if it bothers him, he doesn't say anything. They are silent, and she is so wrapped up in being sure that he's okay and alive and warm and breathing next to her that she doesn't even wonder whether he'd been about to leave when she arrived or whether a doctor was coming back or what.

"I'm sorry," she whispers at last.

He's quiet for a moment. "For what?"

She turns to look at him, her gaze flitting from feature to feature of his face. "For hitting you," she whispers.

"Hey, you had to sell it," he tells her.

"I'm sorry for the rest of it, too."

He nods.

"I didn't mean what I said—"

"I know."

She reaches across herself and tentatively clasps his nearest forearm. "Elliot, I wouldn't trade you as my partner... for anything," she confesses, gently smoothing her thumb over his skin.

He nods again.

And that was it, she realizes. That was all she needed: to know that he was okay, and to reassure him that whatever she had said or done in the lab was entirely an act. They usually resolved their disagreements by never talking about them again, pretending the disturbance had never happened. And, perhaps, if the fight had been real, she could have handled it the same way. It wasn't, though, and she needed to address it. She feels the tension seeping away as she continues to caress his arm.

They sit there together in companionable silence until a nurse arrives to hand Elliot a prescription and review his discharge instructions. He signs the paperwork, and the nurse tells them he's free to go. Olivia stands first. "Is Kathy on her way?" she asks.

"Umm," he hedges as he stands, closing his gown loosely around himself. "I didn't call her."

That catches Olivia by surprise, but she recovers before he looks up at her. "I can drop you off, if you want," she offers.

"That'd be good."

They drive in silence out to Queens. The Expressway, unsurprisingly, is stop-and-go for about eight miles, and the drive takes them nearly an hour. By the time Olivia pulls up in front of his place, night has fallen. The lights are on inside his house.

"Thank you, by the way," he says quietly, but he makes no move to unbuckle his seatbelt, which he is only halfway wearing.

"Of course," she says lightly, assuming he means for driving him all the way out here.

He shakes his head a little. "No, I mean... for earlier. In the lab," he clarifies.

She takes a small breath. "Of course," she repeats, but it's more subdued, more earnest.

She expects him to get out then, but he doesn't. She debates turning off the engine but leaves it running. "When you showed up..." he starts then laughs at himself. "I was... relieved... and terrified at the same time. So afraid he'd—"

Olivia finds his forearm again and clutches it tightly. "But he didn't," she says forcefully, trying to make sure that her partner wouldn't get swallowed whole by all the what-ifs. She knows a thing or two about how haunting they can be.

He huffs and pats her hand. With a laborious smile directed at her, he observes, "You're okay."

She smiles back easily. " _We're_ okay."

"Yeah," he agrees, and finally gets out of the car.


	4. Savior (11x14)

**A/N: Please heed the story rating label for this chapter. Like Chapter 2, this becomes somewhat graphic M. (Note that it is possible to skip this chapter and read the next. You'll miss a vital piece of the character arcs, but you will still be able to follow the plot through the end of the story.)**

 **Thank you for reading. As always, all constructive reviews are welcome.**

* * *

 _ **Savior**_

After the late-night phone call from the hospital and the night she spent in the waiting room, she needed a day. Cragen understood, and he told her to take whatever time she needed. She's been home all day, sleeping fitfully off and on.

In the early evening, probably as he is leaving the precinct, Elliot texts her. _You okay?_

She waits a while to respond, thinking she should probably just tell him that she's fine, but first she has to work up the strength to force that lie through her fingertips.

Twenty minutes proves too long for her to have waited, though, because that's all the longer it is before there's a knock at her door. "Elliot," she sighs, trying to smile as she pulls her door open for him.

He steps in, grinning as he wiggles his phone at her. "I got worried," he tells her.

"I'm fine," she says. It's easier to say it than to type it, but the exhaustion in her voice doesn't help.

"You sick?" he presses.

"No, I—just had a rough night, that's all."

He quiets, and his face changes a little. "Somethin' with the baby?"

She rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. "Yeah. You know, I kept thinking about what you said—"

"What happened, Liv?"

"They, uh, called me down. The baby's brain was bleeding—badly. They needed permission to operate. And for a while I was frozen—I just couldn't do anything. I just kept thinking about what you said, and I..."

He takes a step closer.

"I told them to go ahead."

The look on his face softens. "Yeah? How'd it go?—"

"She died, Elliot. This little baby that was barely a pound—"

He says nothing but wraps his arms around her.

"Didn't even have a name—"

He pulls her head against his shoulder and holds her there, breathing into her hair.

"You know the worst part? I knew. I _knew_ it was a mistake—I knew it when I told them, but I... I _listened_ to you." She hits him, not hard because she has even less energy than she does room for a wind-up, and it only makes him hold her tighter. "In that moment, I thought, 'Maybe he's right—I don't get it because I'm not a parent,' so I told them to go ahead," she chokes out, her voice muffled by his coat. With this admission, her resolve breaks, and her body shakes with her stuttering breaths as she tries not to cry.

"I'm sorry," he says. It's inadequate, but it's something.

"Her tiny body couldn't handle the stress," Olivia tells him. "They got a shunt in, but... she went into cardiac arrest afterwards." She takes a deep breath. "They tried to resuscitate, but..."

He rubs her back, sways her.

It's silent for a moment as she settles into his hold. "What will I tell Gladys?" she asks, an edge of horror in her voice.

"The doctors did everything they could," he says simply. "It's what she wanted."

Olivia squirms in his arms, and he releases her enough to look her in the eye. She is dubious of how easy it was for him to say that, but his proximity and his stern gaze have her transfixed.

"And _you_ did everything _you_ could for that little girl," he observes. "Don't beat yourself up for that."

"I feel so empty," she confesses, finally looking away from him. She fixates on his shoulder instead. "What if that's the closest I ever come to having a child?" she blurts mechanically, seemingly unaware that she has said it out loud.

"It won't be," he answers firmly, and his voice is so unexpected that it immediately draws her attention. "I promise."

She studies him as if she were calculating something deeply private. "Can you do something for me?" she asks at last.

"Whatever you need," he tells her, and his acquiescence spurs something within her.

"You mean it?"

His eyelids flutter, his jaw tenses, and she could swear his pupils dilate. "You know I do."

Her heart starts thundering in her chest, and it's almost enough for her to send him home right now—just to be reminded that she's alive and can feel things. "What _ever_?" she repeats, gasping as she slides a shaky hand around Elliot's torso.

He nods solemnly, watching her carefully as she moves both hands down his body.

One hand slides to his inner thigh. His breathing has become labored in just these few moments. "You can tell me to stop," she tells him.

He leans forward into her just a fraction. "I'm not going to," he says.

Her eyes flick to his for reassurance, and he nods once. In response, she steps aside and indicates her couch with a tilt of her head. He looks at it, glances back to her, then goes to it and sits after removing his coat. She follows immediately and stands in front of him, still not quite sure how to get what she needs. Finally she points at his feet and then at the other end of the couch. He obeys wordlessly and turns to stretch his legs down the length of the sofa without so much forethought as to remove his shoes.

She meets his feet and unties and pulls off his shoes for him then steps back to inspect the scene. She feels him watching her.

Olivia steps forward again, taps Elliot's knee, and gestures upward. He pulls his knees up and leans forward to rest his elbows on them. Unconsciously, Olivia makes a face and shakes her head then waves her partner down the couch.

With a small frown, Elliot scrabbles awkwardly across the cushions until he is roughly centered on the couch and Olivia motions for him to stop. He watches her curiously as again she steps back to think.

She approaches again and puts a firm hand on his shoulder. She pushes until he yields, and then he's lying on his back, staring up at her, knees still bent at ninety degrees.

She lowers herself to the floor beside the couch and reaches for Elliot's crotch. His legs fall open as she rubs him. She hears him groan, and one of his hands suddenly grips her shoulder, massaging it in rhythm with her own strokes. When she turns to look at him, to tell him to stop, he has his other arm draped over his face, and she decides to let it go, returning her full attention to the firm flesh beneath her fingers.

When Elliot's slacks seem to grow too tight, Olivia unclasps the belt, opens the fly, and struggles to slide both pants and briefs down and over Elliot's ass. She succeeds in getting them to mid-thigh, and when she returns to her previous task, she discovers that Elliot has taken it over for himself and is slowly tugging at his own cock. For a moment, she freezes. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She's still not entirely sure what she had been expecting, but it wasn't this. She is so terrified that he might be looking at her that she refuses to even turn her head in his direction. Instead, she stares at his knees, then at the enticing glide of his hand, as she tries to figure out her next move.

She knows now what she needs, but she also understands with equal clarity that it borders on desire, and she won't let Elliot see that. She won't make him unfaithful to his wife. Yes, she will use him for what she needs, but it won't be anything more than that to either of them. She refuses to let it get personal. Without a word, she spins away from the couch and disappears into her bedroom.

She returns a few minutes later in her silk robe and is glad to find that Elliot has continued his efforts in her absence and has instinctively pulled his shirttails out of the way. She still hasn't looked at him past his navel, but from the soft _whoa_ he utters, she assumes he has noticed the change in her attire.

Before she can second-guess herself, she gets down to business—because that it what it is: the business of satisfying a need. Nothing else. Still standing over him, she reaches for his cock, shooing his hand away, and reassumes control of the heavy appendage.

Without warning, then, Olivia straddles her partner, who responds with a surprised _oomph!_ and a small jolt. She tucks one leg into the crease of the sofa where the seat meets the back but leaves the other extended, foot on the floor, for stability. Positioned over his stomach, she's not yet resting her full weight on him, but she completely blocks his view of his lower half. She knows that all he can see is her back, and it gives her some comfort. And courage.

Knowing that he can't see her, she continues to stroke him with one hand, and with the other, she reaches for her center. Elliot also can't see that she's not wearing a stitch underneath her robe. She slides a finger between her folds and tries to feign surprise to herself about just how wet she is. Without thinking, she switches hands on Elliot's dick and only realizes her small error when he moans behind her—no doubt at the unexpected moisture.

Enough is enough at last, and she shifts forward incrementally until she's _right there_ , her aching lips just touching his base. When she releases him, his rigid length springs back and pulses against her, and she takes a moment to collect herself.

Bracing herself with one hand and forearm across his upraised knees, she grips him again in her other hand and holds him still. She rises off of his pelvis and tilts her hips to align him between her folds. Then, still holding him steady, she slowly sinks onto him.

"Oh, Olivia," he moans behind her, and she feels his hands go to her silk-covered hips. His thumbs stroke down the globes of her two ass cheeks, and he moans louder when she lifts herself a few inches, and louder still when she sinks again.

She removes her hand from his cock and wipes her fingers dry on his bare thigh before moving to brace herself with both hands on his knees—doesn't want to leave a mess he can't explain on his clothes. She pulls herself up and down steadily, rocking sporadically to make sure he reaches where she needs him most.

And this, she knows, was the only solution. For the first time since the baby had died—for the first time in much, much longer, really—she doesn't feel empty. She doesn't feel empty at all. Elliot fills her in a way that her fingers, a toy, another man, never could. It's not just physical. She thinks of kissing Dean Porter on this very couch and how "feelings don't matter." Tears come to her eyes—whether from ecstasy, from guilt, from the crushing realization that she will never have this with anyone else, she is not sure. But suddenly, and silently, she is crying.

Behind her, Elliot grips her hips more firmly and pulls her down, holds her against him, rocks her forward and back. She wants to tell him to let her go, that this isn't about him, but she doesn't trust her voice right now. He changes his tactics, though, and holds her steady while he bucks into her from below, and at that, she does bat his hands away and regain control of the situation, arching her back as she rises and falls above him.

He gets the message—maybe—because it's a few moments before his hands return to her body. They slide up her back almost to her shoulders, then, with splayed fingers, back to her hips and forward along her thighs. From there they travel to her abdomen and up her ribcage. Behind her, he struggles to sit up, and Olivia gasps despite herself and removes her hands from his knees, throwing her head back as he shifts inside her. He can reach her breasts from his new position, and he slides his hands up under them, respecting the thin boundary of the robe as he takes their weight into his palms.

She shudders when his thumbs brush over her nipples, and her arms flail, looking for support. One lands on the back of the couch, the other behind her on Elliot's abdomen, which she feels tense further to support the new pressure. She rocks her hips again, and with a grunt, he releases her breasts and falls back to the couch.

She hears him panting behind her, and now that she has succeeded in getting his hands off her, she returns hers to his knees and picks up her pace a little. Somehow, she manages to maneuver herself even farther down his shaft than ever before, and he moans loudly again when she holds herself there. "Oh, Olivia, I love y—"

"Shh!" she cuts him off sharply. Everything seems to stop. Blood pounds in her ears. "No," she tells him firmly.

He doesn't say anything in response, doesn't ask any questions or try to argue. He is silent, except for his raspy breathing, and she waits a moment to see what he will do. She wants to know before she decides whether to resume.

He lies motionless under her, hands to himself. She slowly lifts herself almost completely off of him but then lowers herself again. He shudders but doesn't speak, doesn't reach for her.

She continues.

He's silent except for a few grunts until, after a few minutes, he quietly warns her, "Liv, I'm close." Her pace doesn't change, though, and after a moment, his warning is more forceful: "I'm really close!" In response, she drops a hand to his balls and lightly strokes them, and it's all over. "Oh, God, Olivia!" he howls as he unloads into her.

She stays impaled on him for a moment longer, circling her hips once and pulling an aftershock from him. Then she stands abruptly and turns away from the couch, walking around it in a wide arc to avoid seeing him. Her strides come from the knee, her thighs held tightly together, and she hopes that if he notices, he assumes only that she's trying to avoid a mess. She swings by the kitchen bar to get a used dishtowel which she tosses back to him on the couch without a word.

In her room, she closes the door and goes immediately to the bathroom, where she starts the shower, hoping to send the message that he should leave. She doesn't get in, though.

Back in her bedroom, Olivia listens at her door and hears movement in the other room, even over the noise of the water: the shuffle and clump of shoes, the faint click of a belt buckling, a throat being cleared.

When she is convinced that he is leaving, she drags her dusty yoga mat out from under the dresser, lies down on it, and slowly raises herself into a shoulder stand. She closes her eyes and rests, relaxing a little more when her apartment door opens and closes, and utter silence follows.


	5. Rescue (12x10)

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading, reviewing, following, and/or favoriting. Your continued support means the world to me.**

* * *

 _ **Rescue**_

She should be able to run after them. She should be able to chase Verecca down and rip Calvin from his arms, the very way he'd ripped the boy from hers. Instead, she's rooted to the spot by an overpowering mixture of disbelief and the recognition that she doesn't actually have the legal right to do it.

She stares at the doorway, and she's not sure if the screams she still hears are coming from the elevator, another floor, the sidewalk outside, or just her cruel memory. She gasps for breath.

Elliot's touch is tender. He stands beside her, half a step behind, and slides one hand across her far shoulder blade to her upper arm. "You okay?" he asks.

It is the stupidest question she has ever heard, and she reels around and snaps at him. " _No_ , Elliot! I'm _not_." It's easier to be angry than it is to be sad.

He doesn't back down, though, nor does he raise verbal dukes for a fight. Instead, he just murmurs, "Come here," and folds her into an embrace she didn't expect. "I'm gonna take you home," he says.

"I have work I need to finish," she says lamely.

"No you don't," he argues, "I watched you catch up on Tuesday when you were avoiding the Donohos."

She pulls away from him, and there's a twinkle in his eye. She doesn't know how the hell he can tease at a time like this, but it actually worked, and she grants him a single half-annoyed chuckle. It's a very small thing, but it's the first step toward feeling a little more normal.

He gives her space to get her desk in order for the weekend and pack up her things, and then he's waiting for her near the door when she finishes, jacket on, car keys in hand. She glances up at him as she walks past, and he falls into step beside her without a word exchanged.

In the elevator, she thinks about the conversation they'd had earlier in the week, about how much longer she was going to keep "playing mom." It must be on his mind, too, because he spontaneously volunteers, very quietly, "You were a natural with Calvin."

"Don't, El. Please."

"I still say you'd make a great mom."

She doesn't respond to him because it hurts too much.

On the street, as they are about to get into his car, he adds, "We can fight it, you know. File a claim. Come on, we both know some child advocates—"

"'We'?" she asks.

He quirks an eyebrow at her over the roof of the car. "We're partners. What's yours is mine, what's mine is yours."

"Not quite," she tells him, then they both duck into the car.

He buckles his seatbelt, and before he turns the ignition, he says, "Well, then, at least this: your fight is my fight. Now and forever."

He seems so serious that it makes her uncomfortable. So she laughs and turns away to look out the window. Beside her, he starts the car and puts it in gear.

The Manhattan streets, even on the Upper West Side, are busy with Friday night revelry. There aren't any open spaces close to her building, so Elliot double-parks out front and puts on his hazards. Olivia doesn't immediately get out of the car, though.

"You were right," she says quietly. "It was only temporary. I knew that. I _knew_ that. _And_ I knew when I arrested Vivian that she might... retaliate." She shakes her head and looks out the window, up at her apartment. "You know, she didn't even _kill_ Burlock! Maybe I should have just walked away, like she said. Then Sarah would be alive, and Vivian never would have talked to Calvin's dad—"

"Liv, you did the right thing."

"Oh, spare me your moral high ground," she spits. "What did you expect me to do with you standing there, scrutinizing me, passing judgment on my every move—"

"I woulda backed your play. No matter what."

"Please!" she huffs.

"Munch called me, and I _went_ ," he growls. "Not to stop you, not to talk you down, _certainly_ not to _judge_ you! I went to _help_ you! Whatever happened. If I wasn't prepared to do that, I'da ratted you out right then. Kicked it back to Cragen and let him have your ass for it."

She sulks in her seat, folding her arms over her chest. It really is _so_ much easier to be angry than sad.

"Look, if I wasn't there, would you have done anything different?"

She thinks for a moment, trying to recall all the pieces of evidence she had at the time. "No," she concedes at last. "But that was when I thought she—"

"You did the right thing," he repeats. "That's what matters. And you would have, with or without an audience. You always do. It's one of the things I..." She can't tell if he trails off or cuts himself short, but he finishes the thought with a brusque sigh. "Damnit, Olivia, I wish you could know how proud I am of you."

"You'd've done the same thing," she speculates quietly.

He takes in a long, thoughtful breath and expels it the same way. "I dunno," he says at last. "Maybe."

She glances over at him, and he's gazing out the windshield, apparently lost in thought. "Thanks for the ride, El," she says.

It snaps him back. "You bet."

She gets out of the car and walks up to the building. Elliot is waiting—always does—for her to make it in the door. She doesn't need to turn and look to know that he's there.

The moment she walks into her apartment, it hits her. He's gone. He's really gone. This morning at breakfast, he was here. He went to school, she went to work. Routine. An hour ago, he was at the precinct with her. They were laughing, having a good time. Normal. But he's not here now. He won't be here ever again.

She can see his painting on the fridge to her left. She doesn't want to take it down, but she has no idea how she'll ever walk into her kitchen again with it hanging there.

One of his schoolbooks is on the bar. A hoodie is hanging on one of the stool backs. The Frisbee she'd bought last weekend and promised to take him to the park on Sunday to play with rests on the coffee table.

She tries to ignore these things, but she suddenly realizes that she doesn't even know where to sleep tonight. Since Calvin arrived, she has been sleeping on the sofa in the living room—but she doesn't want to be surrounded by the reminders that he's gone. With this in mind, she goes to the bedroom; maybe sleeping in her own bed again will lull her into a memory of a time before he came. But if she's trying to avoid reminders that he was here and now he's gone, the bedroom is the wrong place to be.

His backpack is hanging on the inside doorknob. Homework sits unfinished on the bed. A pair of shoes have been kicked off near the door. A dresser drawer hangs open, a t-shirt spilling out. His possessions when he arrived were rather meager, but over the last four weeks, Olivia has filled in some of the pieces, and he had accepted the place as home. Beside the dresser, his nightlight still glows.

She walks shakily back to the living room. There is a small, cheap set of plastic drawers next to the couch that she has been using as her dresser for the last few weeks after giving Calvin three entire drawers of his own in her room. She pulls out a set of soft loungewear and heads to the bathroom.

It isn't until she's done with her shower and is struggling to put on the fresh clothes in the steamy little room that she realizes that she didn't have to do all of that: before Calvin, she would have showered with the bathroom door wide open. She would have walked around in her towel, or even without one, and gotten dressed wherever she felt like.

She wants to go to bed, even though it's still early. It has been more than a month since she's been able to turn in before ten, more than a month since she's gotten more than six hours of sleep in a night. She decides to stay on the couch for now because tackling the bedroom will be much too hard for her tonight. She curls up, pulls the blanket over herself, and waits for sleep.

But the silence of her apartment is nerve-wracking.

It's not that Calvin made a lot of noise late at night, but there was something about having another person in her space that she could _feel_ , even when she was asleep. Things just aren't the same.

She pulls out her phone before she fully understands what she's doing. "El?" she asks when her partner answers. "Can you come back? I, uh, I wasn't ready for the place to be empty."

He tells her he will, and within forty minutes, there's a knock at her door.

She lets him in, and he stands there in her entryway, running his fingers over his keychain as he watches her.

"Did you wanna go somewhere?" he asks when she doesn't speak.

Her eyes fall to the fridge. "No," she tells him. "I just need someone to be here."

His lip twitches the slightest bit towards a smile. "Well I'm here," he says as he slides his car keys into his jacket pocket.

She smiles brightly—bravely—and exhales quickly. "Yes. Thank you." She goes into host-mode then and offers him something to drink.

"Whatever you're having is fine," he says, but she would make herself tea, if anything, and she knows he doesn't like it much. She gets two beers from her fridge instead and opens them both before handing him one.

"Looks like you," he says, motioning to the refrigerator door with his bottle as she comes out of the kitchen.

She turns and looks at the painting again. "Except the uniform," she says, desperately trying to find _some_ fault with it, so the loss of the artist feels less raw.

Elliot shrugs. "Cut him some slack. _I'm_ a bald, angry stick-figure in most of _my_ kids' artwork."

She looks him up and down as she leads him into the living room. "Seems about right," she teases.

"Ouch," he says, following her.

She sits at one end the sofa, and when Elliot joins her, he sits at the other. Her mind unhelpfully flashes back to the last time they were here, and she hopes he's not also thinking about it. They sip their beer silently for a moment, then Olivia says, "Vivian needs help."

"She does. You think she's gonna get it?"

"I hope. She's not a bad person. I think if she gets clean, stays sober..."

"Still a pretty shitty mom, though."

Olivia scoffs and tries to think of an excuse. "Yeah... when she's high."

"Which... a not-shitty mom wouldn't do," he reasons.

She sighs and decides to drop it. Elliot doesn't, though.

"People make choices, Liv. You know that. And sometimes, our choices define us. Vivian made herself an addict. It wasn't a foregone conclusion just because she had a rough start." He eyes her as he takes a drag from his bottle.

"I know," she admits.

He takes another long pull. "I mean, you're right—you two aren't that different." She glances up at him, and he's just staring at her. "And look how you turned out."

She smiles bashfully and takes a sip of her own beer. Silence falls, and out of discomfort, she reaches for the TV remote. It was a mistake, however; when she turns the TV on, the all-cartoon channel that Calvin had been watching this morning before school leaps to blaring life, and it puts her back on edge.

Elliot reaches over, takes the remote from her hand, and changes the station to news. She is unspeakably grateful. They watch it idly together, drinking their beer. "I don't get it," Elliot quips at one point. "If baseball can figure it out ahead of time, why couldn't football or basketball, huh?"

Olivia smirks. She doesn't follow sports—is only vaguely aware of the lockouts and doesn't quite understand the recent developments with the different players' unions—but she likes that Elliot seems to be at home. She likes it even more a few minutes later when he finishes his beer, gets up to retrieve a second, and finally removes his jacket.

Elliot mutes a commercial upon his return, and in the silence, Olivia glances down at the Frisbee in front of her. "Thank you, really, for coming back tonight," she says sincerely.

"Of course," he says. His eyes land on the Frisbee, too, then travel to the plastic drawers beside him and the blanket folded along the back of the couch. "You, uh, need any help? Getting his stuff together?"

"Well he didn't have much," Olivia replies, as if to dismiss the offer.

"Doesn't mean it'll be easy," he counters.

She picks up the Frisbee. "I know."

Elliot stands and goes to the barstool across the room. He sets his beer bottle down and reverently lifts Calvin's hoodie off the back. He never takes his eyes off Olivia as he folds it. "The claim could take months to get settled," he reminds her. "You don't want to be sleeping out here that whole time. I mean, look for a two-bedroom, maybe, or—"

"I'm not gonna file, El."

He stands there for a moment, staring at her, working the hoodie in his hands. "You sure?"

She nods.

Across the room, he twists to reach the textbook on the kitchen bar, and he puts the folded sweatshirt on top of it. "I thought you wanted him."

"I do! But more than that, I want what's good for him. And... that's probably his grandparents."

"You don't even know them, Liv."

"Well, I know there's two of them, and one of me. I know I work long, hellish hours at a job I could never really tell him about. I know Vermont has more space than the city—more room to run around, be a kid." She gets up to take the book and hoodie from Elliot and put the Frisbee with them. "And the snow!" she adds. "He was so excited a few weeks ago when we had that unexpected storm, and..." She trails off, mid-memory, and laughs at it. "Well. He _loves_ snow."

He watches her carefully. "If you change your mind... I wanna help. However I can."

She tries to smile. "I'm not going to change my mind. I've been down this road before, and I've been rejected too many times. I won't go through it again."

He's still staring at her. "I want it to happen for you," he croaks.

She tries to laugh him off and turns away from him, putting the book, sweatshirt, and toy on the arm of the sofa.

"Do you have any boxes?" he suddenly asks, and when she looks up, he's striding toward the bedroom, and Olivia bristles.

"You want to do that right now?" she asks.

He shrugs in the doorway. "Thought it might help. Make your room yours again." He enters the room without further preamble, and she can't help but follow. She leans against the doorframe and watches him survey the modest room. She briefly worries that he's judging her—it's her bedroom, after all—even though he's been in it before, and she can't help feeling a little like he's invading her privacy. Elliot picks up the t-shirt that was draped over the open dresser drawer and folds it. "Maybe you could send him some things," he suggests. "Might help him settle in."

"Yeah," she responds breathlessly, watching him pull the rest of Calvin's small collection of t-shirts from the same drawer. Her personal discomfort dwindles as she watches her partner focus exclusively on finding the boy's things.

Elliot continues sorting and folding: shorts and short-sleeves in one pile, warmer clothes in another, socks and underwear in a third. It's so domestic, and he does it so effortlessly, that Olivia thinks again about the idea of "playing mom." If she were the one packing up the room, would she even think to sort his things like that? Or would she blindly dump drawers into garbage bags? Or would she sit and obsess for hours on end over each little item, running her fingers over faded spaghetti stains that she just hadn't been able to get out?

When Elliot squats to open the very bottom drawer, Olivia calls him off, telling him that she had kept that one for herself. He pauses for a moment, almost as if debating whether to check it anyway, then moves on. The three little piles on the bed hardly amount to anything.

Elliot notices the clothes hamper in the corner and picks it up, shaking it to jostle the contents as he peers into it. It's all Calvin's. "Did you want to wash this?" he asks softly, holding up the hamper to his partner.

"Uh, yeah, I... I'll wash it," she says faintly. She'll put it in with the sheets and his towel. Tomorrow, maybe, or Sunday. She takes the basket from him and carries it to the bed, where she sits down next to the half-completed homework. She looks the paper over and smiles at where he put a second _m_ in _tomorrow_. The tears well up in her eyes again.

"Boxes?" Elliot prompts, and it breaks her from her reverie.

"Yeah, I—I've got something," she stammers, then she drops to the floor and hauls a storage bin out from under the bed. It has a quilt and a heavy down comforter in it, which she dumps into the chair at the desk. It'll be cold soon. Probably about time she pulled them out anyway.

Elliot pauses in his gathering of toys to watch her, then meets her to take the bin and start tucking away Calvin's clothes. He slips the homework sheet into the backpack from the doorknob, and puts that in the bin, too. The discarded shoes go next, and then Elliot moves the bin to the floor outside the bathroom, where he starts collecting the boy's toiletries.

Olivia stands alone next to the bed and reaches an unsteady hand for the covers. She knows she should strip the mattress, drop the sheets in the hamper with the rest of the laundry, but it seems like the most impossible thing to do right now.

She sighs a silent curse at herself. "Why is this so much harder than packing up my mom's house?" she asks. Elliot comes to the door with a last handful of things from the bathroom then approaches, instinctively dropping Calvin's towel and washcloth into the hamper.

"Let me do it," he says gently, briefly touching a hand to her lower back. He steps around her when she doesn't move, and then he peels the layers from the bed, slowly. With care. It reminds her of the way Warner washes a body at autopsy.

When he's done, he puts the sheets in the hamper, just as Olivia would have, and the blanket onto the chair with the quilt and comforter. Then he packs the remaining toys into the storage bin, and the only thing left now is the nightlight.

They sit on the naked bed together, and Elliot drains the last of his beer. It's late.

She gazes down at the storage bin. It's strange to think of an entire life, right there. Of course, she realizes, it's not: it was one month. It was only one month. But there's the promise of a future boxed up in there. Her hopes. Her expectations. Her dreams, even. They're all right there, snuggled between a squirt gun and a pair of jeans with unforgiving grass stains.

Empty bottle in hand, Elliot rises. He stalks to the nightlight, and she is so terrified that he's going to yank it out of the wall, yank the last bit of Calvin out. She takes a breath to say something—to stop him—but all he does is flick the switch off. Like he knows. She sighs in relief.

Elliot leaves the room and returns with the hoodie, book, and Frisbee. Olivia stands and meets him at the bin as he puts them in. And that's it. That's the very last of it, except for the painting, the nightlight, and what there is to wash. She slides the bin into the nook outside the door but does not close the lid.

"Thank you for doing all of that," she says.

"I'm always happy to help." Suddenly a frown darkens his face. "You got another set of sheets?"

"Yeah?" she replies uncertainly.

"Clean ones?"

"I'm not a college kid, El," she laughs as she steps around him to open her closet, revealing several stacks of linens.

"Just checking," he says, barging forward and reaching past her to pull down a set of sheets.

She watches him in disbelief. Elliot Stabler just removed something from her closet. Elliot Stabler just selected her next set of bed sheets.

"You just gonna stand there?" he asks, and the sound of his voice surprises her. She looks up, and he's standing on the other side of the bed, looking at her expectantly, the fitted sheet halfway unfurled across the mattress.

Olivia shakes her head almost imperceptibly and steps up to the near side of the bed. She picks up the sheet like it's the most alien thing in the world. And, in a way, it is; never in her life has she dressed a mattress with a man. With her mother, yes, a few times when she was young, but there is something so terribly domestic—terribly _intimate_ —about it that she's nervous and self-conscious now.

Elliot is patient, and he waits for her to fit her two corners before he tackles the more difficult fourth corner himself. Sheet on, Elliot adjusts his side and spreads his hands in arcs over the mattress to smooth out wrinkles. Olivia watches in awe for a moment, then imitates him on her side. Like this is normal.

He tosses her part of the top sheet, and they unfold it together over the bed, letting it billow between them as they bring it down. They share a quick grin at the way it falls, and then Olivia follows his lead as he positions it over the mattress. For her, changing a bed had always been perfunctory, but Elliot makes it... different.

"I'm about two inches past the top of the box spring. You?" he suddenly asks.

It's like he's speaking a foreign language—the elusive tongue of bed-making. Of cohabitation. She doesn't know how to respond, so she just fumbles her way through: "Uh-huh." He lifts the mattress and she copies him again as he tucks in the foot of the sheet.

Elliot tosses her the pillows and the pillowcases. "Don't know how you like the tags," he explains, as if it would mean anything to her. Tags? Do people care about pillow tags? Should _she_? "Which of these do you want?" he asks next, gesturing to the three different covers on the desk chair.

"The quilt is fine," she tells him as she stuffs a pillow into its case. "That blanket's due for a wash."

Across from her, Elliot goes about unfolding the quilt and putting the blanket with the clothes hamper. She watches him as she fills the second pillowcase, and he hasn't batted an eye yet. He makes it seem so easy, so natural. Meanwhile, her stomach twists in conflictive knots of yearning and confusion.

He continues to move around her apartment like he owns it, without hesitation, without seeking permission. His bold activity is at once endearing and overwhelming.

He disappears from her room with the hamper and returns with the plastic drawers from the living room. He stoops and pulls out the top one and, gesturing to the real dresser, asks, "Where'll this go?"

She blushes immediately when she realizes what he's holding—her temporary underwear drawer—and leaps forward to take it from him before his eyes can focus on the contents. "I'll do this," she rushes quietly.

He nods, and she's so grateful that he doesn't put up an argument. He leaves the room, and she hurriedly resettles her dresser before he can come back.

He doesn't come back, though, and when she finishes the task at hand, she leaves to go find him. The hamper is tucked into the nook, beside the bin with Calvin's things. The living room looks tidier; the TV is turned off. Elliot is in the kitchen, rinsing their empty beer bottles. She watches him in wonder for a moment. She feels lighter than she did three hours ago. It is very comforting to have Elliot there.

When he's done, Elliot drops the bottles in the recycling and dries his hands. He catches her watching him and gives her a quick, tight-lipped smile before walking out to where she is to collect his jacket.

There is something unsettling about it. She can almost feel the blood draining from her face, and the familiar thud of dread pulses through her veins. She must look like hell because Elliot glances at her again and stops rolling his shirtsleeves down. "Everything all right?" he asks cautiously.

She should tell him yes. She should thank him again and say she'll see him on Monday. Wish him a good night, tell him to drive safely—maybe even text her to let her know that he made it. "Can you stay?" she asks instead.

"Uh—"

"On the couch?"

"Liv—"

"It's just so quiet," she confesses.

He still hasn't put on his jacket, and he looks down at his feet, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. "I've got Eli's birthday party in the morning," he tells her.

"Oh, yeah, of course," she says haltingly as hot embarrassment rises to her cheeks. "Never mind." She waves the idea away with a hand, trying to laugh instead of cry at her own ridiculousness.

"But, uh, it's not till ten, so... um, if you need me to stay... I can."

She is completely unaware of the relieved sigh she expels, but she can feel some of her anxiety slipping away already. "I would really appreciate it," she says, her voice cracking the slightest bit.

"Lemme just call Kathy, huh?"

She nods and gives him some space, pretending not to hear the lie he tells his wife about being exhausted from work and staying there for the night. He promises to be back in plenty of time for the party, offers to run errands for it on the way home, tells her he'll call when he's leaving. Murmurs a soft, "Yeah, you too. Night." Hangs up.

He had hung his jacket up on a barstool while he was on the phone, and now he turns around to face Olivia as he works his tie loose. "Can I get you an extra blanket? Or, uh, towels or anything?" she asks.

He glances past her to the blanket on the back of the sofa. "I'm good," he tells her.

She offers him the bathroom first, and when he returns, they bid each other a good night and she retires to her room for the first time in almost a month.

For a while, she lies awake in the bed, telling herself to relax and get comfortable. It's strange, though, being in a bed that earlier was Calvin's. Stranger yet, being in a bed that Elliot made. It's quiet, but with him in the next room, she doesn't think about the emptiness, and eventually, she drifts to sleep.

Sometime after three, she wakes up, and her four-week habit proves too hard to break; she quietly slips into the other room to check on her guest.

He is sprawled out on his back, still fully dressed except for his tie and shoes. The blanket is twisted on top of him, which she assumes means he had been tossing and turning. A pang of guilt hits her. A slightly different twinge strikes when she thinks again of that couch and the man on it and the last time he reclined there.

She will never be able to explain the urge later, but something like loneliness overtakes her as she watches her partner sleep, and without questioning it, she sinks to the floor and curls up next to the sofa. She is asleep once more in mere moments.

The brightness of the room wakes her again, just before seven. She draws in a deep breath and looks around, bleary-eyed, at her surroundings, trying to orient herself and figure out why her shoulder and hip are so sore. It's the floor, she realizes pretty quickly, and everything comes back in a flash. She moves to get up before Elliot can discover her there like some hapless dog at its master's doorstep. But she's too late.

She takes the blanket with her when she sits up, not thinking twice about it, but the arm across her midsection stops her short.

Heart in her throat, Olivia glances over her shoulder and discovers her partner lying not on the sofa where she left him but, rather, directly behind her on the floor. They are sharing the blanket he had been sleeping under, and as she becomes more fully aware of her body, she realizes that his knees are tucked right behind hers, too.

He grunts softly and shifts, drawing his knees up further and pulling her determinedly against his chest. She doesn't quite know how to extract herself from his hold, so she lies down again, and he reflexively buries his face in her hair when she returns.

She lies there, rigid with fear, and listens to his steady breathing, feeling its heat at the back of her neck. His hand slides over her hip to her thigh, and he sighs just a little. That's enough. It's more than enough—it's too much. She gets up immediately, not caring whether or not she disturbs him.

He rolls back, obstructed by the couch, and groans as he wakes.

From the kitchen, she hears him yawn and vocalize further as he stretches. She has her back to him, is already working on coffee. "You up?" she calls, as if she didn't know, but she doesn't wait for the response. "Want some coffee before you go?"

His noises hitch for a moment. "Yeah," he says. His morning voice is even gruffer than his regular one. She hears him get up and stagger away, doubtless headed for the bathroom, and she pulls down two mugs from the cabinet.

He puts on his shoes and loops his tie back around his neck when he returns, then he slides into one of the barstools.

"Good morning," he rumbles.

She can't help but flash him a quick smile. "Morning," she responds. The coffee isn't finished yet, so she just stands there in the kitchen with Elliot on the other side of the bar and the sound and smell of coffee pricking her senses in the stillness. "So what's the party going to be like?" she asks suddenly when she can't take the silence anymore.

Elliot draws a tired breath. "A mess."

She laughs in spite of herself. "Is there a theme?"

"Dogs? I don't know, is that a theme? He's going through this... _dog_ phase right now, so the cake has these... two dogs on it. And the napkins and plates have puppies on them or something."

She smiles, genuinely. "Sounds cute," she tells him.

He shrugs, and the coffee splutters to an end.

She pours them each a cup and fixes his the way he takes it before passing it to him. He wraps his hands around the mug and stares into it.

"You could come," he offers quietly. "If you want."

Honestly, if he had invited her a week—or even a day—earlier, she might have gone. But now it feels like an afterthought. A pity invitation. And, really, just the idea of spending the morning with a group of overactive three-year-olds is a little more than she can take right now. "Thanks, but... I have things I have to do. Laundry among them," she reminds him.

"Right."

Silence falls again, and the two of them just sip their coffee. It's strange. They've had coffee together hundreds of mornings—probably thousands, actually—over the course of their long partnership, but it's never been like this. It's never been in one of their homes, in one of their kitchens. Never after one had awoken in the other's arms.

She needs him to leave before she gets used to this.

"I'm gonna shower," she tells him abruptly. "Thanks again for everything last night. You'll probably be gone before I'm out, so... have fun at the party. Give Eli a hug for me. And... I'll see you later." She smiles flatly at him and disappears without another word into her bedroom.

She takes an intentionally long shower and he is, in fact, gone when she finally checks an hour later.

* * *

Olivia has been expecting the knock that comes at her door that evening just after eight. It's her dinner, ordered from that place she likes on 85th more than an hour ago. She tips the delivery guy generously as always and carries her spoils into the living room to unpack.

She is _not_ expecting the knock that comes at her door about ten minutes later, just as she's pulling the lid from her sesame noodles. She briefly glances over her containers, even peeking into the unopened one just to make sure it's really her Sichuan dry-fried beef. Nope, she has everything. Did the delivery guy think he'd made a mistake? She goes to the door and checks the peephole.

"What?" she breathes at the sight and opens the door.

"Hey," Elliot says, slipping in through the small crack she provides.

"I was, uh, just sitting down to dinner," she tells him. He inhales deeply, and she pretends that she doesn't see him peer into her kitchen for any sign of home-cooking. "What brings you by?"

"This," he says, and then he produces a large bag from his side that she had missed when he came in.

She looks at him askance but takes it from him.

"I was out, and I saw it, and I thought... why not," he adds with a shrug.

She pulls out a large, flat, paper-wrapped item from the bag and carefully unfolds the paper from around it. It's a picture frame. A big one. She looks at him again, her brow and lips pursed with an unasked question.

"I don't know," he says dismissively. "Thought you might wanna... frame some art. Or something." He is downplaying the gift, but the look in his eyes tells her that he knew exactly what he was doing. And Elliot is not the kind of guy who would ever frequent a place where they happened to sell oversized picture frames. Or the kind who would drive all the way into Manhattan on a Saturday night just to deliver an impulse gift.

"I just might," she whispers, already imagining where she could display Calvin's painting. "Thank you," she says tightly, and she hooks an arm around his neck to pull him in for a hug. She releases him with a sheepish chuckle when her stomach growls. "Dinner," she murmurs.

"Want some company?" he asks before she can say anything else to him.

The offer is unexpected, and she smiles warmly, genuinely. "That'd be great."

They head into the living room and fall onto the couch together, side by side. They talk while she eats—about the birthday party, the day's weather, traffic out in Queens, the one good dryer in the basement laundry room that always has someone's things in it—and he plucks single morsels from her dinner and eats them with his fingers.

He stays the night again, on the couch, and she sleeps through the night in her own room.

In the morning, she wakes to the smell of coffee and lumbers out to find him in the kitchen, shoulders hunched over a bowl of cereal that he's eating standing up, leaning against the stove. He looks up when she enters and points his spoon at the fresh pot of coffee on the counter. Her mugs are stored in the cabinet just over his shoulder, but he doesn't even flinch when she steps into his space to reach for one.

"Sleep all right?" he asks as she starts to pour her cup.

"Yeah. Thanks."

He slides the cereal box over to her, and she makes herself a bowl. They eat their breakfast and drink their coffee in companionable silence, both just standing in the kitchen. She doesn't feel as awkward as she did yesterday.

Once he's done and his dishes are rinsed, he grabs his jacket and goes to the door.

"I gotta head out," he tells her. She briefly wonders where he had told Kathy he was going last night, where she thinks he is now, and where he's due. She won't ask, though; it's not her business. "See you tomorrow?" he prompts.

Her responding smile is colored with relief. "See ya," she replies.

He's gone, then, and the apartment is quiet. It's an easy quiet, though, and this morning she knows she can live with it.

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry if anyone thought there would be a sixth Stabler tyke running around at some point. There's not. (Some of the reviews for Chapter 4 made me worry that folks were anticipating it.) Canon is pretty important to me, and I generally prefer not to disturb what's been established. [If you want an EO baby, check out my story "Dreams Revisited." It's the closest I get.]**

 **One more chapter to go...**


	6. Smoked (12x24)

**A/N: This is it, the last chapter. Thank you for being here. Please leave a review if you feel so inclined. I appreciate all constructive feedback.**

* * *

 _ **Smoked**_

 _Whatever you need, you know where to find me._ It's nearly the exact same thing she has texted him half a dozen times since he helped her move past Harris, whenever he has been struck by an especially rough case. _If you need me, I'm here_. Dick Finley. The animal smugglers and that undercover cop. _Whatever I can do, let me know_. Victor Tate. Shane Newsome. _If you need anything, I'm good for it_.

But he never responded. Even as he met her every need, he never took her up on her offers to him.

She assumed it was because he had Kathy. He had a wife and a family, a readymade emotional support system for the really tough cases. Eli proved it. Olivia didn't have one, though. All she ever had was him.

After the bodies are taken away and the injured are seen to, there is nothing left. The bullpen is shut down for three days as the scene is processed, and the squad members give statements and are put on leave.

 _Whatever you need, you know where to find me_. She sends it the day she's allowed back at work, when he's still out, right when she gets home. She doesn't expect a response because he's never responded before. And, true to form, he never texts her back.

Instead, he rings her apartment about six hours later.

It's after midnight, and she was already in bed, so her heart is thumping as she goes to the call panel. "Can I help you?" she asks into it.

"It's me. Let me up."

She takes a breath as she buzzes him in, but knowing who her caller is does nothing to slow her heart rate tonight. She has imagined the various ways in which he could ask her to take care of him, and though she always thought she'd be glad to repay so many of her debts, when she is now finally confronted with the possibility of it, the idea is actually quite terrifying. She works hard to steel her nerves as she waits for the knock on her door.

It's very light. Maybe he didn't want to disturb her neighbors. Maybe part of him doesn't want her to open the door. But she's standing right there, frozen to the spot, and she hears it.

She opens up. The gleam in his eye is unmistakable. "I've been expecting you," she admits quietly, a soft smile coming to her face as she eyes him. Text response or no, this moment has been three years in coming. Longer, probably, if she's honest.

He steps in, already breathing heavily. She's glad she's not the only one.

They watch each other carefully as she moves to close the door. It's certainly not the first time they've been together like this, but it's the first time he has ever responded to an offer. They'll never talk about it, but if they did, they would never be able to pretend this was just about her and her insecurities. It's both of them now. He's equally responsible.

She stands quietly with her back to the door, her hands behind her on the doorknob, waiting for him to make his first move. One breath. Two.

The longer he waits, the more nervous she becomes. Had she made a mistake in trying to return so many of his favors? Is the guilt too much for him? Has he changed his mind? But she refuses to move; tonight isn't meant to be about her. She'll go at his pace.

Finally he reaches for her, and she falls against him willingly.

He manages to cup her cheek, jaw, and neck with one hand and pulls her face to his. She gasps just before he kisses her, and the moment their lips make contact, he huffs out through his nose in what seems like the deepest of satisfaction. After a moment, she tries to pull away—somehow this is more intimate for her than anything she's done to him, and it's too much—but he pursues her, stepping forward to reclaim her mouth, walking her backwards until she hits the door.

He sucks on her bottom lip before biting it lightly. She whimpers in spite of herself and he nips again before deftly soothing her tender lip with his tongue.

She moans and puts her hands on him for the first time, sliding one up to his face, just to feel the power of his jaw moving as he devours her. Elliot shifts, presses into her, coaxes her mouth open, tastes her, growls approvingly when he feels the heat of her tongue against his. Her other hand moves along his abdomen, fingers trailing over the zipper of his hoodie and the muscles hidden underneath.

She kisses him back. She will never be able to pretend that she didn't. Despite everything she has taken from him over the years, and regardless of whatever else he takes from her tonight, this fact alone seems like the irrevocable truth from which they will never actually recover: that when he kissed her, she responded. Surely this was marital infidelity, a violation of NYPD's Code of Ethics. Surely _this_ was "well and truly fucked."

Elliot shifts again, easing the force of his assault. He pulls back slightly, looking at her mouth with half-closed eyes, seeming to survey his work. Then he returns with a series of soft, slow kisses: just his lips tugging earnestly at hers. She sighs, and she feels him smile against her, but his attention never wavers.

Olivia opens her mouth to him again and waits for him to resume his previous exploration before she settles a knee between his legs. He leans into her, and she drops a hand to her thigh, palming him through his jeans. Certain she knows where this is going, she begins to work him slowly, noting the way he twitches, reacts, and starts to stiffen under her sure touch.

Elliot shakes his head, though, and breaks their kiss as he reaches down to stay her efforts. He looks at her sleepily, as if he can barely focus. His one hand is still near her jaw, and he reaches his thumb to trace her bottom lip. "This is all I want," he rumbles softly.

She doesn't know what possesses her, but she stares him directly in the eye and kisses the pad of his thumb in response. He shudders slightly and wastes no time replacing his thumb with his mouth, humming in satisfaction as she again yields to him.

Olivia tilts her head to allow him different access, and he leans forward again, crowding her, overpowering her. She doesn't mind, though—had expected to be dominated in some way tonight—and replies by slipping her tongue into his mouth and dragging her fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck. He groans and shifts against her, and she feels him on her thigh. She idly wishes again that he would let her take care of him, and she wonders if this is how he felt each time she had denied him whenever they'd been together before—itching to touch, longing to feel, aching to take control.

His mouth slides off of hers, hot and insistent as he works his way across her jaw. She lifts her head, and he's on her neck, and she can barely breathe. She whimpers as she presses against his open mouth, and she holds him in place with the one hand at the back of his neck and the other that has slid up under his arm and curled around his shoulder. He works his way to her collarbone, lapping and sucking at her jugular notch when he reaches it— _Jesus_ this stodgy Catholic has a talented tongue!—and she practically purrs. He works back up the taut column of her throat until he meets her lips again, and he kisses her slowly, his firm upper lip bearing down on hers until it slides off and catches on her bottom lip. He refocuses his entire attention there, working her lip tenderly between his.

She is left with his top lip, and she busies herself with it, content to nip and nibble and nurse as long as he is. Her hands slide down his torso, fingers rambling along his ribs, and in the haze she becomes aware of his hands on her—one on her lower back, keeping her close, and the knuckles of the other lightly strumming up and down her side.

He sighs and pulls away, and she pursues him, mouth open and searching. He grins and meets her, teeth ready to leave their mark, and he growls again as their tongues find each other.

She thinks of herself as olivewood as his hands skim higher and her whole body heats up, burning hot and high without end. For him.

She groans at the thought—the realization—and her hands rove to his back, one continuing down to grab his ass and pull him closer. She moans when his denim-clad dick presses into her hip, and _he_ moans when she rolls her hips against him.

Suddenly, he pushes her away, against the door, and her eyes fly open at the unexpected motion. He shakes his head and takes half a step back. His eyes look foggy, lost, confused. His tantalizing lips pink and inflamed. She wants them back on her.

"Hey, I'm sorry," she whispers, immediately removing her hands from his body. They seem to move of their own accord up to his neck, and her thumbs frame his face, one skimming over his jaw to his ear. "I'm sorry," she coos again.

His cloudy stare is unnerving. "I love you," he grates.

She flinches in response, her whole body going rigid. "Elliot—"

"No, this is about what _I_ need," he says with a single stern shake of his head, and her hands fall away. "And I needed to tell you that." He breathes heavily and stares directly into her eyes. The fog is gone, and everything is crystal clear. "I need you to know," he says. His jaw trembles just a little.

She is speechless. Breathless, even. All she can do is stare. Her partner has never terrified her more than he does in this moment.

In their silent face-off, time stops and the world falls away. A thousand questions, objections, and confessions swirl in her mind, but all language has died, too. He's watching her with a predatory intensity that makes her mouth go dry, and she couldn't possibly speak, even if she knew how to.

Her eyes flick briefly to his swollen lips, and her own need flares up within her. Once ignited, olivewood burns hotter and longer than most other wood. Her mouth twitches as she takes the smallest step forward. He steps back, eyes warily searching hers, and she lifts a hand to his face.

She holds him still and rises on tiptoes to kiss him.

He stands there motionless for a moment, and if she were thinking about anything but the way his lips feel under hers, she would be nervous.

He pulls away again, but not far, and her hand doesn't leave him. "I love you," he repeats, his voice barely a whisper. She stares at him for just a moment, and then she nods, accepting his admission. She leans in again, and he meets her in a languorous kiss, their eyes slipping closed as they connect reverently.

His fingers skim her cheek, and then both hands are cradling her head. He tilts her away, and his lips sear a path across her jaw again. She writhes under his mouth as he fixates on one sensitive spot, but with one hand at the back of his neck, she's practically keeping him there.

"I love you, Olivia," he breathes against her skin. He kisses her. "I love you." The last one tears from his throat, and it sounds like he's choking, but she can't tell because his lips are back on hers in an instant, hot and demanding.

She gives him what he needs.

Growling, he finally he rips himself away from her mouth and presses his forehead to hers. He exhales roughly. "I have to go," he tells her.

She takes a breath. This is the moment. "No you don't," she says, praying that he understands. She opens her eyes to look at him, to make sure he knows what she means, but his are still closed. Alarm blooms in her chest when she suddenly realizes that he has been crying. Elliot Stabler doesn't cry.

He licks his lips and breathes in shakily. "I do," he tells her. He sounds so incredibly weak that it breaks something inside her. He sniffs and draws back, finally opening his eyes again.

He takes a long look at her, and she silently wills him with every fiber of her burning olivewood being to stay.

Instead, he swipes a thumb tenderly across her cheek, as if she'd been the one crying, and takes a fortifying breath. Then, without another word, he opens the door behind her and is gone.

 _-fin-_


End file.
